Canterbury Estate, Mould-on-the-Wold

Another August scorcher, probably the worst of the month. Usually Ligeia like to see the lawn and garden in brownish death, a basis to watch the plants grow anew for a short moment in the autumn before hunkering down for a long winter. But the heat and sunlight was terrible, she could tell the moment she woke up and there was a tangerine glaze from her closed eyelids before she opened her eyes. It was days like today that Ligeia refused to go outside. There was hitting a few points along the Floo network to travel indoors, and Diagon was a narrow street with only a small strip open to the sky but it wouldn't be worth it to scuttle about like a rat from corner to corner.

She didn't feel particularly rat-like today, you see. More like a mole; remaining inside, industrious, that sort of thing. She could smell the mole on Buzzard's breath, he must have gotten to the loose earth the moles made shallows burrows in past the property fence.

So tottering about around breakfast she found she had the house all to herself: Papa Argyle and Uncle Griffon at work, Dot at a photo shoot and mother Hannah vacationing in the Riviera. Ligeia contemplated if she had any engagements today. Next monday would be her last week at St. Mungo's before school began. The thought of school turned to each of the staff members in turn, eventually getting to Mr. Morgan the Librarian and then by association his relation Darian Morgan...

"Goodness!" she said to Buzzard across the kitchen table. "I nearly forgot. The other Mr. Morgan is expecting me."

It was off to the owlery built into the upper floor. With two ministry workers back in the house again the lofty attic had a writing desk plus a few roosts for owls, ones trained to reach certain contacts in the wizengamot or RCMC, for the various business correspondence flown through the house. Bless Buzzard for the way he cleaned up roadkill on the muggle highway a few miles to the west but he was not a very smart delivery bird.

In the owlery Ligeia wrote a quick note, while behind her Buzzard and a grey owl spread their wings and hissed at each other, ready to fight.

Dearest Mr. Darian Morgan,

I know I had a appointment for a fitting scheduled with you for eleven o'clock but the sun is absolutely horrible and I don't want to leave the house. I can just imagine the deadly rays filtering through the windows to set fire to the carpet. Would you be able to make a house call? If you find the exterior of the house caught on fire please bring a bucket of water and your best cast Augamenti.

Yours,

Breaking up the battle of the birds of prey before they went into death throes, Ligeia sent the grey owl off with the addressed note. What to do before Mr. Darian arrived? She decided to check how her latest potion was brewing...getting so fully engaged in the task that she again forgot she had made plans with a tailor.

Several cauldrons filled the laboratory space as Ligeia went to work in a dreary black dress, an apron, gloves, and goggles over her eyes. The stream from each brewing potion made the room humid, blurred in a hazy wave. Ligeia was on the last of her bulk order from Sellaphix Apothecary, having perfected her Living Death brews. Recently she'd been on an experimental run, a viscous purple solution in the largest cauldron. She had been inspired by Mr. Flint's interment at St. Mungo's, the wizard that poisoned his innards white. Imagine a powerful bleaching agent. She had started with the base ingredients of a Strengthening Solution and from there tried to figure out where Mr. Flint had gone wrong.

Although the current attempts were purple she felt she was close. Only in vapor form was her proposed bleaching potion reacting to anything. Ligeia's apron and the ceiling were peppered with minuet splotches like flakes of dandruff. She rather liked the effect on the ceiling. Almost like a painting of the night sky, although Professor Trishna would take points off for improper constellation formation.

Ligeia was so engrossed in her work that she barely heard the sudden peal of a banshee scream that rang throughout the house. The front doorbell.

"That would be Mr. Darian!" Ligeia cried, snuffing the flame from under the potion. Buzzard screech from his perch, a metal bolt imbedded in the wall--one of Ligeia's earliest firings of Argyle's old crossbow. She hastened down the stairs, goggles perched on top of her head, Buzzard flapping after. The entrance hall had a variety of entertaining taxidermy. 'Entertaining' like one notable and central piece of a cougar about to rip into a wildebeest. Buzzard chose to perch on the wildebeest's horn.

Ligeia opened the door. "Mr. Darian! Do come in." She invited him inside.

It was indeed a burning day, a punishing day, the kind to put a haze meters both ahead and behind. But Darian, strolling leisurely up the walk to the Canterbury estate after Apparating in, was cool as could be. Clever fingers led to clever cloth; with all the charms that went into his creations he was positively weather-proof. But as a visual concession to the weather he'd gone blazerless, color sneaking its way into the rest of his wardrobe and then bashing moderation into unconditional surrender. His trousers were black shot through subdued silver pinstripe, his shirt was a brilliant red-purple, and his tie nestled fluffily cravat-esque against his neck in a cooler lilac shade. His waistcoat looked like houndstooth in blue and silver but on closer inspection yielded tiny dragons locked with one another, Escher-like in their eternal eye-boggling fit. His eyes were lit, his smile was sharp, and his hair as always was a bright fire of its own.

Slung over one shoulder was a traveler’s bag, brown leather, sleek and deceptively narrow for all that it carried a good portion of his shop. Darian had had half a mind to bring Misa with him – of course he could handle any a housecall alone, of course he didn’t need her, but he was used to having her at his side for any sort of business. Now there was an assistant-shaped hole at his side. He'd have to do all the boring parts himself. Absently as he walked up the drive he put together snatches of poetry in his head, to use on her for when he returned and could tell her all about his most abject misery, how he'd felt just so bereft. He would probably forget all of his clever lines once this was done, but for the short walk it kept him entertained.

He was no stranger to house calls. A consequence of serving the rich and famous was doing so at their leisure, and Darian had such a reputation as a courtly salesman who'd do almost anything to please his best customers. He hadn't had to make one for a while, though. They'd been mostly reserved for the early, desperate part of his career, when he really had to work to earn his money. Now his client base was more stable, and required less wooing.

When he reached it the door was flung open by his problematic appointment-keeper, a girl who greeted him with a fierce gaze, pallid skin, and an astonishingly sweet smile - a girl with a peculiar problem. He bent gallantly over her hand, ignoring the apron and goggles and staring mounted animal heads. “Ms. Canterbury!” he said, straightening with a bob of fiery curls and a pleasant, professional smile. “It’s such a delight to meet with you again. What a delightful home you have! I've never seen such a collection.”

"Breathtaking, isn't it?" Ligeia said when peering about the entrance and the various horrifying examples of the predators catching prey perserved in the stuffed and mounted medium. "Like the breath being squeezed out of your lungs by a heavy weight on your chest. Papa has hunting trips whenever the Elder Wizengamot is out of session. And whenever else he can. Most of the stuff in the house is stuff Papa's collected over the years although I did shoot that one." She pointed to a Jarvey, like an oversized ferret, with a prize marlin in its mouth. Sometimes in passing you could still hear a muffled obscenity from it. This past year at school Ligeia thought that the Jarevy-eating-a-marlin had followed her to school, with all the cusswords faintly heard in odd corners of the common room.

"Coffee? It's Klatchian brew in the pot, so it might be a little strong for you." Ligeia removed her gloves and apron while leading Mr. Morgan to the sitting room, another museum piece with curios loaded in cabinets. A quick wave of her wand got the coffee table and couches moved back so there was plenty of space in front of the fireplace.

"Now, I know I requested a Yule Ball gown and another casual dress from you, Mr. Morgan, but I've come up with another concern. With everything going on with the tournament this year, I've been thinking that if I put my name in the Goblet of Fire and it pops out again, I might be lacking in mobility." While having your dress snagged on the spines of a Hungarian Horntail might be a thrilling way to break it in, it wouldn't do having obstacles that could be controlled beforehand cost her points if her school depended on it. "But I don't want to loose my sense of style, of course. Do things with a flourish. And we can only hope the weather for the tasks takes place during rainstorms or blizzards, instead of a sunblaster like today. But I know you keep weather in mind on your clothes, Mr. Morgan."

"Breathtaking, isn't it? Like the breath being squeezed out of your lungs by a heavy weight on your chest."

"Exactly like that," Darian agreed. "You've got the definition bang on the nose." As they passed the Jarvey it seemed to Darian that he heard it mumbling something, just on the cusp of hearing, but his expression did not change one iota.

"Oh, thank you very much," he said. And, "I doubt it. Nothing's too strong for me, Ms. Canterbury." Normally this would have been accompanied by a wink, but Legeia was, after all very young. No winks for her. He followed her to the sitting room, placed his bag on the table, and sat down, folding both hands under his chin and gazing at her as if to imply that he was all ears.

"Well, not that I mind the advanced notice, but isn't it a bit early?" Regardless of his words, he was pleased to toy with the idea. Clothing fit for a tournament... to promote speed and grace... there would have to be specialty fabrics, charms, plenty of things it'd do good to order and create early. However, the odds of Legeia having her named pulled were very high, and Darian didn't want a bunch of specialty fabric sitting around if there was no use for it. That would be both costly and space-consuming for him. "Let me talk frankly with you. For clothing that is comfortable, practical, stylish and yet not likely to snag... You really ought to consider the matter of trousers."

(( I dig the TPratchett reference. ))

"Oh, it's always good to meet a fellow enthusiast that can stomach the bitterness," Ligeia said, wavering her wand for two cups that came flying into the room, filled with the blackest pitch. Otherwise it would have been a drop of the dark stuff and a bucket of cream to combat the flavor that liked sweeter drinks. One continued it's path to Darian.

"It pays to be prepared." There's were words Ligeia lived by, if not nearly the Canterbury family motto. She'd always had a failsafe growing up a photosensitive, so part of Ligeia's natural comfort zone active anywhere she went were the numerous safety nets and plans about. During her down time she also updated the family emergency plans: illness, quarantine, fire, hurricane, Inferi attack. Those were the most fun to design, she had over a dozen different ideas to combat Inferi.

The suggestion almost had Ligeia laugh into her coffee. "Mr. Morgan, you tease! What would I do with a pair of trousers? My legs would be much too defined and exposed. The school uniform is bad enough with the standard length of the skirt." Ligeia always had her uniform cut longer.

" 'Enthusiast' may be going a bit too far," he laughed, taking his cup with a graceful incline of the head. "I must admit it's often just that this stuff's far more effective than sobering charms."

Strong coffee, strong drink, strong drugs... it was a lifestyle choice, wasn't it? He'd never shied away. He took a sip, eyelids squeezing shut and mouth curling at the almost-forgotten intensity of the stuff. Not too much, now... he wasn't the slightest bit drunk and that made it so much harder to swallow. Oh, he was going to need a mint later.

"That's true, I suppose." And if he was stuck with a load of specialty fabric, what of it? Raising the matter with Ligeia would have been so indelicate. He'd find someone to take the lot off his hands, even if he had to promote it as part of his newest line.

He put his coffee aside for a moment and leaned forward. "No, no, listen," he said with a quick gesticulation, his dark eyes deadly serious and mouth fairly quivering with indignant earnestness. "I know it's scandal of the highest order, but think of the comfort and mobility! Ms. Canterbury, I have a dozen tricks to conceal your lovely legs. Would you rather be snagged on every passing obstacle in the Tournament courses? I imagine you could sprint like a gazette if the risk of exposure is removed. Exposure, you know, is even less lady-like than trousers."

Ligeia swallowed a scalding mouthful of coffee. Growing up with the brew, she had developed almost an immunity to the harsh flavor. The build-up of anti-intoxication effects was probably another reason why she never got toshed with the evening wine at dinner.

The other Mr. Morgan was adamant. "I suppose my legs are lovely, I never said they weren't." Under her dress she crossed her ankles, an old reflex. "They're fully revealed in my old swim costume but that's somewhere back in a closet behind the bed of nails and a mutated skeleton. And unless another Task takes place in the lake again I don't see that getting much use." Though she should find it and pack it before school began. Be prepared. And also pack some harpoons.

"It's just, the skin on my legs is especially sensitive. I wouldn't want even an ankle to be visible during the day, they've spent so long under my skirts. Shielded but aired by a decent draft, and nothing tight or it irritates me. I hope you can understand, Mr. Morgan."

Besides physical reasons to stay in dresses, a cultural mindset was also working against Ligeia's opinions to the matter. "I shan't know if I could sprint like a gazelle or a horklump until I'm in one of your trousers." Ligeia didn't think she could be speedy on short notice but then she had never tried given the restraints of her usual outfits. "But, trousers are so...common, these days. I rather like my distinctive wardrobe."

"I'm sure they're magnificent," Darian sparkled, all smiling mouth and innocent tone. "I'll take very good care of them. Specialty fabrics, a loose cut, and there's no reason for you to be put to any more trouble than you already are by the sun. Possibly even less."

It wasn't an uncommon objection, although generally he was more used to fielding it from robe-wearing elders. Ligeia had always been very old-fashioned though, and she'd given in with less resistance than most. But it was a perfectly silly idea, trying to perform some feat of athleticism in a dress. There were some styles from the turn of the century that Darian could tweak, from women had just begun to wear pants, that would conform to both his stylish standards and Legeia's somewhat Victorian sensibilities.

"Not to worry ~ " It was positively a purr. "I won't stray too far from your preferences. Place your trust in me, Ms. Canterbury, and I shall not disappoint. Why, and if you don't like my trousers, you don't need to invest even a knut. You can come try them on at the shop, or I'll bring them on here, and if they displease you then away they go again."

"Aren't you doting." Ligeia said, high spirited. No wonder Mr. Morgan had done as well for himself with this business. The only other business that catered to Ligeia's tastes had been Twilfit & Tattings but even they the styles had been too 'fresh.' Elegant, of course, but too similar to sister Dot's fashions.

"There's no need to rush the Tournament wear until I am confirmed to be engaged in a task. And you'll be swamped with Yule Ball gowns for sure. Whenever you have the time. Is there anything else you need in this moment?"

"Only measurements," Darian reminded her helpfully, flashing her a cat's grin at the compliment. Wasn't he doting, oh, the girl had no idea. "You might've changed since last year. Here, I'll make it quick." He gained his feet in one smooth movement, his bag making the jump from the floor to his hand in a neat little bit of trickery. A sweep of his arm indicated the way to the other room; he glanced up at her from under his bangs. "I think perhaps the sitting room is more appropriate for the task? There is a little more open space."

Once he unleashed the contents of his bag this would be all over in a flash. Darian inclined his head, smile gentling to something a little more professional. "After you."